


Oblivisci me non

by poeticjustice22



Category: The Nun's Story (1959), The Nun's Story - All Media Types, The Nun's Story - Kathryn Hulme
Genre: Catholic Guilt, F/M, Internal Conflict, Loss, Nuns, Religious Guilt, Self-Discovery, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 07:06:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17824181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticjustice22/pseuds/poeticjustice22
Summary: With his keen mind – as sharp as the scalpel he so expertly wielded – he saw everything; had seen her inner conflict right away. Had called her out on it, bold and abrasive as he was. And she had known the truth but would not face it, so she had scolded him for his truth-telling and become the hypocrite herself. As it always was with him.





	Oblivisci me non

**Author's Note:**

> Vignettes inspired by the open ending of “The Nun’s Story” (1959).  
> I haven’t read the 1956 novel of the same name by Kathryn Hulme, upon which the film is based, and since the book, reportedly, does not imply any romantic or sexual tension between Sister Luke and Dr. Fortunati, I have chosen to forego the source material and stayed with the mood and the feelings that the film inspired.  
> Thank you kindly for reading (and reviewing).

She swallowed the lump in her throat, a dull throb remaining.

So many had come to see her off.

Perhaps she had not really understood just how much this place had affected her, and she it, before now.

Her eyes watered, tracking person after person on the station, wanting to take them all in. Colleagues, former patients and locals were waving their goodbyes; a multitude of faces turned in the direction of the rolling train, blending together, slipping away, lost in the motion. ~~~~

She would likely never lay eyes upon them again, never speak with a single–

Warmth jolted through her stomach and her eyes stayed riveted by the sight of an achingly familiar white-clad figure at the end of the station – as if one blink of the eye, one sideways glance would make him evaporate into the thin air, like one of her feverish dreams during her illness.

Dr. Fortunati. Tipping his hat off to her in farewell.

_He had come._

Was he even aware of what he had done for her? That he had saved more than her life?

 

X

 

She was not supposed to believe in the mortal love of man and flesh and blood.

And yet...

 _He_ was so much more than that.

With his keen mind – as sharp as the scalpel he so expertly wielded – he saw everything; had seen her inner conflict right away. Had called her out on it, bold and abrasive as he was. And she had known the truth but would not face it, so she had scolded him for his truth-telling and become the hypocrite herself. As it always was with him. No matter how she went about it, she ended up feeling conflicted in his presence; another, higher voice within calling it sinful. Shameful. And it was not his fault. Not really. It was like that with her two calls in life: Medicine and God.

She had ruminated and brooded: How was she ever to come to terms with them both and herself? A bridge where she could cross and find peace. Be at ease with herself and God.

And _him_.

She missed him already when the train pulled out of the station and she saw him standing there.

Selfishly, she recalled the way he had looked when he said he could not – _would not_ do without her. How valuable her help had been in the hospital; how much he had come to respect her as a colleague, her skills and industry, despite their clashes of views in other matters. How he refused to let her dissolve into her own quiet misery. How relieved he was when they discovered her TB was in its early stages and how, perhaps stubbornly, confident he had been about curing it. How insistent he was for her to understand when he tried to explain his perfectly sensible reasoning for sending her home with Engelbert. How hopeful he was that she would return (how hopeful _she_ was). How displeased he was with the news of her replacement and how he tried to play it off as a joke of childish obstinacy on his part.

She would never forget the unwavering, shrewd intensity that shone in those world-weary blue eyes of his when he said all this. He always rested within himself. Something that she secretly admired and coveted because she _constantly_ wavered. In spite of or _because_ of her iron will…

And she had come to love him for it, like she had loved Sister Aurelie; for the goodness of his heart and for all his lack of faith when he proved to be a better human being than she could ever be.

 

X

 

The few touches there had been had stayed brief and professional; gloved hands reaching across the operation table, exchanging scalpels and operation kit. Bared hands trading patients’ medical journals, books and research on rare diseases, microscopes and slides of samples. She was grateful for it since _any_ interaction with him already put a strain on her consciousness. The daily working hours were so very long and tiring in the heat, she could admit it now; the forcible wakefulness of concentration and the pumping of adrenaline by each operation, each anxious thought that the patient might not survive, even in the capable hands of Dr. Fortunati and herself; that the climate and the sweltering air, prone to carry diseases, would have the final saying. Each jarring, self-denying thought that she might be more than normally exhausted each day.

Her devout mind clashed with her scientist’s mind which longed to ask, longed to slake its thirst of gaining knowledge about his world, knowing he would answer her truthfully and without question, give astute and blunt answers, occasionally served with that unassuming dry wit of his.

She had been warned of these particular charms of Dr. Fortunati. Only, with mainly being exposed to the impassive, almost frigid relations among the nuns at the mission hospital and the limited interaction with the locals, _anything_ could be called flirting. She bore both observations in mind, and she almost grew accustomed to him as time went by, never responding, stubbornly holding on to her vows, repeating them in her head whenever that slight spark ignited his steel-blue eyes, lingering a little longer after another successful operation. There was something curious and appraising in that gaze, nothing unpleasant or presuming, only silently hopeful that she would eventually respond, like any intelligent non-believer such as him probably would.

It was tempting. It had been so long since she had interacted with anyone of sound mind and body _outside_ of the convent or the hospital.

But she never gave him anything.

 

X

 

When he finally touched her for a longer period of time, it was with a surgeon’s attention, a surgeon’s touch; clinical, assessing. She had told herself to become a statue, to become ice under his scrutiny but the effects of TB and exhaustion had conquered her last resolve (hence her coming to him in the first place) and she had given in and trusted him implicitly.

His fingers had felt strong and tepid, the pads callous; revealing years of medical work in the field, as he examined her, asking her repeatedly to breathe and to cough while the cold metal of the stethoscope pressed lightly into her naked back.

And she _felt_ naked; exposed and shameful for having contracted the disease to begin with, cursing the weakness of her own flesh, somehow taking it as a sign of her lack of true and fulfilling obedience. Oddly, she didn’t feel immodest in front of _him_. Only in front of God, the convent and her sisters. Only in front of herself.

And though she trusted him, she felt nervous around him, nervous that he could see right through her and see all the dirty shame she tried to cover up and fend off on a daily basis. The _true_ sickness. She feared the truth he would see; that she didn’t belong in the convent nor in the hospital… working with him. That she didn’t deserve it. And that she was a fool.

But it was her pride and her vanity speaking and she immediately squashed them.

When he had taken her into his personal care the touches remained professional, bordering on a nurse’s gentleness that had been absent during the first examination where each touch related the swift urgency with which to establish the stage of her exact illness.

 

X

 

She didn’t even know his first name.

Was it Christopher? Lawrence? Thomas? She liked to think it was a biblical name, or something with a stout bearing. Like its bearer. A name that suited a dedicated, considerate character. Headstrong. Dry-witted.

She should have asked.

 _For once_ , she should not have let that stubborn will of hers get the better of her; nor give into the mental beatings of obedience, marking her timid nature again and again, each time the wish to know and to share arose. To give into temptation.

She mustn’t.

She _mustn’t_.

But… Why was it so wrong when she would probably never see him again?

He would not come back to Europe. He would die in the field. Die with his work, his patients, his people.

Of which she was no longer. None of it.

Her eyes and her heart didn’t seem to want to let go even as the train rolled further and further away, and she realized she had left a part of herself in that place.

And only then did she allow the tears to fall.


End file.
